


Everyone's Got Their Specific Damage

by magnetgirl



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: F/F, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/pseuds/magnetgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dutch and Pawter meet. It goes well until it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone's Got Their Specific Damage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirty_diana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirty_diana/gifts).



> Took the title from the request notes "I love this universe and I love how everyone's got their specific damage." Me too! And I loved writing this universe (especially Pawter!!) so thank you for requesting it. I hope this addresses a few of the questions you asked, while also leaving things a little open ended because the mysteries are still building.
> 
> Note: Intro is post-S1, main story is pre-series (their first meeting) and the breaks are where the ads would go

Pawter Simms sleeps with a plush rabbit. It’s as old as she is and the features are indistinct but it was beautiful when new. The most expensive fabrics, hand sewn, gold dust in the thread. Royal purple now faded to a dusty rose. It’s missing one eye, an opal she sold in her first year of exile, when she was young and desperate and dumb. It wasn’t worth it and she vowed to never sell the second. 

It looks like a pirate now. Pawter likes pirates. 

D’avin doesn’t know about the rabbit because when they sleep together they don’t sleep. When Pawter has a pretty boy in her bed -- or on the table or under the table or . . .you get the idea -- she doesn’t need her bunny. The boy is toy enough. When she first saw D’avin, that’s what she saw, a plaything. A really well put together plaything. And she really wanted to play. 

It ended up more complicated than that but. That’s life. 

Johnny doesn’t know about the rabbit because he’s never been in her bed. He’s pretty enough but too . . . he’s just too Johnny. All sad eyes and soft lips like a puppy or, well, like her doll. Johnny isn’t the right kind of toy to toy with. Plus there’s everybody else she’d have to contend with. Dutch, D’avin, Pree -- she’s pretty sure Pree wants him for himself but that’s not why he’d protect him -- even Alvis, who never does anything that isn’t also for his cause. . . John Jaqobis is everybody’s friend. Hell, the ship loves him like a pet. 

Pawter had lots of pets when she was a little girl. She loved to take care of things. Her mother hated it, animals are dirty. But Pawter invited them right into her bed. Kittens, real rabbits, a beautiful golden brown dog with the softest fur Pawter would brush before bed. She took better care of the dog’s hair than her own. But nobody can afford pets in Westerley. 

Johnny doesn’t know about the rabbit but if he did, he’d get it. 

Pree would too. The bar is Pree’s bunny. Or it was. 

Alvis knows about the rabbit because when she finally lay down to bed that first night underground, she curled a towel into a vaguely oblong shape and tucked it against her chin. He didn’t ask for specifics but added “Illenore’s doll” to the list of things lost to revolution. Alvis believes if he loses sight of what is sacrificed he loses sight of why it matters. It’s a long list. 

Dutch knows about the rabbit.

Dutch sleeps with a knife under her pillow. Not one particular knife, any knife, a gun or some other alternate weapon in certain circumstances. She prefers knives. They require two things: skill and accountability. A knife was the first hand weapon Khlyen taught her to use. He didn’t teach her to look in her victim’s eyes but she always does. Dutch hates that she prefers knives but it also keeps her sane. 

D’avin hasn’t seen the knife under her pillow but he knows it’s there. Dutch is the kind of woman to sleep with weapons. Probably why she slept with him. 

Johnny knows about the knife. You’re not Dutch’s partner without learning her habits. And there were nights they fell asleep in the same bed after a long mission or a longer talk. Space can be lonely, dark, mean. It’s hard for him. Dutch can’t sleep without the weapon under her pillow, John has trouble closing his eyes knowing it’s there. No matter how small the knife or how big the bed he can feel the edge digging into them, reminding Dutch of what she wants to forget. 

Pree doesn’t know about the knife. Not yet. Maybe soon, unfortunately. Pree, in his way, is as innocent as John was when she met him. As Pawter and even D’avin. Maybe especially D’avin. But now Pree and the rest of them have been dragged into something much bigger than a knife under a pillow. 

Alvis knows about the knife. It’s not on his list, but maybe it should be. 

Pawter knows about the knife.

\--

“What’s that?”

Pawter glanced at the door. “Med scanner.”

“I’ve never seen one so. . .” Dutch wasn’t sure how to end the thought. Big? Dirty? Rusted? 

“Old?” supplied Pawter. Dutch’s lips curled upward as she nodded. Pawter’s smile was much wider, if it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “All I could afford. But,” she turned her attention back to cleaning the scanner, “With a little work, it’ll be good as new. And it’s already a hundred times better than anything on this backwater rock.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “Not from around here?”

“Me?” Pawter blinked. Dutch was standing just in the doorway, hip jutted casually, an air of confidence and -- authority -- surrounded her but it wasn’t threatening, just. . . appraising. Pawter felt suddenly transparent. She didn’t like it. “No, I, uh, I mean,” she shrugged. “I live here.” She gave a little nervous laugh. “Here, here. There,” she pointed to a doorway behind the table, no door, just a sheet tacked up, “Here.” 

“But you weren’t born here.” Dutch stepped fully in the room, leaned onto the table, hands under chin, still casual, almost. . . flirtatious? 

Pawter pursed her lips. “Do you . . .want something?”

Dutch straightened, took off her jacket, tossed it to the side and pulled her shirt up over her head, her chest bare beneath it. Pawter’s mouth dropped open. As Dutch turned, raising her arm, a long gash reaching from the top of her left breast to her stomach became visible. 

“Oh.” Pawter blinked again. “Oh.” She carefully placed the scanner on the table and grabbed a medkit. She sprayed a gauze wand with antibacterial and touched it gently around the wound, careful not to touch the cut itself. “Does it hurt?” Dutch shot her a look. “Right, well my pain meds are . . . I can give you something that will put you out or I can ask Pree for a stiff drink.”

Dutch set her jaw. “Drink.” 

Pawter nodded. “Get up on the table, I’ll be right back.” As she turned to leave Dutch grabbed her wrist. 

“It’s poisoned. Petrichorleander.” 

Pawter frowned. “How do you know?”

“It’s my knife.”

\--

“So you want to talk about it?” Pawter had cleaned and medicated the wound and was painting a protective layer of duraskin over it to aid healing. Dutch met her eyes over the near empty glass of her stiff drink.

“If I wanted to talk about it I would’ve gone to a doc inside.”

Pawter scrunched her nose. “Hookup gone bad?” Dutch rolled her eyes. “Hey, we’ve all been there--”

“That isn’t what this is.”

Pawter placed the duraskin down and started spraying another layer of antibacterial. Dutch sat stock still and straight as she had throughout the procedure. Pawter couldn’t decide if she was impressed, aroused, or scared of the enigmatic bounty hunter. Realistically a combination of all three, it was just a question of which would win out. She picked up a roll of gauze and started to apply a final dressing over the wound.

“Okay, but you gotta stay awake and supervised til we’re sure the poison’s out of your system. Gonna be a long night with no conversation.” Dutch didn’t answer. Pawter finished taping over the dressing and stepped back. “It’ll take 48 hours to set but then you’ll be as good as new.”

Dutch hopped off the table and retrieved her shirt from the floor. “Thanks.” 

Pawter cocked her head. “I have a washer.” She pointed to the shirt. “No good reinfecting yourself after all my hard work.” Indecision crossed Dutch’s face. It was the first moment of vulnerability she’d displayed and Pawter pounced, plucking the bloodied shirt out of Dutch’s hands and gesturing to the sheet in the door. “You’re my size, put something on and throw me the rest.” Dutch still hesitated. “I’m serious about the supervision. You’re stuck with me til morning, may as well be clean and comfortable.” 

Dutch’s lip curled upwards again and she disappeared behind the curtain.

\--

“So, now I’m here.” Pawter spread her arms wide to encompass the tiny bedroom of her suite, such as it is, above the bar and down the hall from the bonk rooms. Not quite the size of her personal linen cabinet growing up, but home. Such as it is.

Dutch, dressed in a floral blouse Pawter forgot she had, almost certainly chosen for its incongruity, raised her glass, “To here.” She smiled, and sipped, knowing full well she’d gotten the abridged version of the Doc’s life story. But she’d learned more than Pawter told, too. “And now.”

Pawter giggled, and clinked. They were on the second bottle, though most of the first went to disinfection and pain management. Somehow Dutch had drunk twice as much but Pawter was the one feeling lightheaded. “Why do you have a poisoned knife?”

Dutch shrugged. “I’m a RAC agent.”

“Pfft.” Pawter fell back into the pillows that covered her bed. “I know lots of them. Not like you.”

Dutch shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”

“For what?”

“For anything.”

Pawter knocked back the rest of her drink, grinning over the rim. “Where do you keep it?”

Dutch took the glass out of Pawter’s hand, refilled it, and touched it to her lips. “Under my pillow.”

Pawter’s eyes went wide. “Aren’t you scared? To sleep with a weapon?” 

Dutch laughed. “You sleep next to a hundred things that could kill someone. A hospital’s the most dangerous place in the universe.” 

“But that’s my job.” 

“Exactly.” Dutch tipped the glass back, finished off the drink, and let it roll away under the bed. Her body was on fire fighting the infection and the poison. She knew she was safe, for her own personal definition of safe, but it hurt more than she wanted to admit.

“You’re sweating,” Pawter noted, a medical business tone overtaking the playful one Dutch had unexpected affection for. 

“My body’s doing what it’s supposed to.”

Pawter bit her lip. “And you’re supposed to be resting. . .”

“I’m surrounded by pillows,” Dutch argued. 

“ _I’m_ surrounded by pillows,” Pawter countered, trying to push herself up. “You--”

“Shhh.” Dutch pushed her back down into the pillows and made sure she stayed there. 

Pawter felt the room spinning and it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

\--

Morning arrived sooner than expected. Certainly sooner than Pawter wanted, though to be fair she was nothing like a morning person. Hard to be when you lived in perpetual night.

“Morning sunshine.” Dutch didn’t have the same problem apparently. Or maybe she just hid it well. She was clearly very good at hiding. 

“Ugh.”

“What’s this?”

Pawter opened an eye. Dutch was holding a toy rabbit, faded, and missing an eye, but clearly a high end trinket when new. Pawter felt herself blushing. “Nothing, it’s. Nothing.” 

Dutch turned her hand to make the bunny dance. “Tell me your secret Pawter Simms.” Pawter laughed and snatched at the doll. Dutch pulled it just out of reach. “This eye’d go a long way to a better med scanner.” 

“Newer isn’t the same as better.”

“Maybe,” Dutch acknowledged. “Maybe you don’t want to give up your escape route.”

“That’s not why.” Pawter sat up. Dutch held the toy out to her, dance dance. “It reminds me. . .”

“Who you are?” 

“No, more like . . .”

“Where you’ve been.” 

“No! Stop putting words in my mouth.” Dutch shrugged and dropped the toy on the bed. She walked out of the room. Pawter sighed, and followed. Dutch was pulling her pants on. “Wait, I have to check the wound.” Dutch nodded and hopped onto the table, raising her arm. Pawter pulled back the dressing; the duraskin had done its job, the wound safe in a protective cocoon despite the evening’s revelries. She sprayed it once and started to cut a new batch of gauze. 

“It reminds me of who I want to be,” she answered, finally, as she set the dressing in place. 

“Rich?” Dutch scoffed.

“Safe!” Pawter barked. Her lips trembled. “And. Real.” 

Dutch was silent as Pawter pressed the last tape in place. 

“It’s so loud. Here. I can’t sleep,” she pulled her lips in over her teeth. It shouldn’t still hurt, she knew that. She knew. But sometimes she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t built that way. “When I’m alone. That rabbit reminds me to be strong. You know?” She shrugged. “Isn’t that why you sleep with a knife under your pillow?” 

Pawter’s eyes were so big, and brimming with a deep hurt. But also hope. She thought Dutch got it, and now she wouldn’t be so alone. Dutch did get it. That’s why they couldn’t be friends. “No.” Pawter shook as if she’d been slapped. Dutch pulled her shirt on and turned to go. 

“Dutch. . .”

“Thanks,” Dutch called out, not looking back. 

“Dutch!” Pawter ran after, all the way to the bar. Dutch was leaning against the bar, waiting for someone, but not her she was pretty sure. 

Pree touched Dutch’s shoulder. “You look like hell, girl. Rough night?”

“Bad hookup.” Dutch glanced over his shoulder to meet Pawter’s eyes. “Happens to us all.”


End file.
